


Rewrite the Stars

by eucleia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, arranged marriage AU / marriage law au, major themes of grief and hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28413741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eucleia/pseuds/eucleia
Summary: AU, Post-DH. Blue eyes, freckles, and hair that blazes under the sun. It's the same dream Hermione has from time to time, and in waking, she turns to Ron to find an answer. But some destinies are greater than intention, and when the Ministry appoints Fred as her match, Hermione begins to question her ideas of fate.{Marriage Law AU}
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley, Ron Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 56





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> _Lonely eyes  
>  She had those lonely eyes  
>  I only know 'cause I have them too  
>  Lonely eyes  
>  No, you don't have to hide  
>  The things you feel inside, I feel too_
> 
> **\--Lonely Eyes by Lauv**

**Seven**.

Hermione runs into the wall because that’s what the lady who had met with her parents had told her to do to get to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She’s nervous, and part of her brain is reproaching her at believing this, but the Professor—she was a _Professor_ —had told her this was the only entrance, so Hermione trusted her.

She grabs the handles of her trolley hard, knuckles white, and tells her parents to wait for her to go through first. And then she makes a run for it, face determined, bushy hair flying behind her.

The wall melts away as she hits it, as if it never existed in the first place. Her trolley goes careening through and onto a platform teeming with people and children. Hermione gasps, pulling back on the trolley to curb her speed. It swerves, and someone shouts and jumps out of the way.

“Careful!” he yells at the same time that Hermione says, “Sorry!”

She catches flaming hair and freckles, a grimace and a shrug, before the boy disappears into the crowd towards a group of people who are obviously family, sharing the fiery hair and freckles that he owns.

Later, Hermione would learn that his name is Fred Weasley.

 **Six**.

It is the end of her second year, Lockhart has been exposed as the sham he is, and Dumbledore has cancelled the end of year exams.

The halls of Hogwarts are quiet. Everyone is enjoying the last days of sunshine and bliss around the green grounds before they all go their separate ways home for the summer. All, that is, except for her. Hermione is huddled into an armchair by the fireplace in a secluded corner in the Gryffindor common room, a pile of books by her side.

She picks one up and turns it around to look at the cover, where Lockhart is still grinning and winking up at her, unaware of the fate of his real-world counterpart. Several times, she picks up her copy of _Magical Me_ and lifts it towards the fire, the only one left burning in the common room. Moments pass…and then she lowers her hand and puts it back at the top of the pile, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin there, silent.

It’s not a difficult decision to make. She knows this. Whatever she thought of the man before (he was a _Professor_ ), everything had been a lie. Harry and Ron had warned her. She would be lying if she said she had not had any doubts of her own. But that smile…

Hermione sighs.

This is how it begins. Fred Weasley always finds her during those unseen moments when no one else notices, and he never leaves her alone.

“Hermione!” he says today, catching sight of her immediately as he clambers through the portrait hole. He is splattered in mud, face flushed and eyes sparkling from exercise. A grin stretches his face and walks over to her immediately. “There you are. Wondered what you were up to when I saw Harry and Ron lying alone by the lake. They’re trying to lure out the mermaids or something—figured you’d be there to stop them.” He pauses, seemingly noticing her low mood, and looks puzzled.

“Hello, Fred,” Hermione says, lifting her head up and trying for a smile. She did not _want_ attention drawn to her. She picks up the book at the top of the pile again and rifles through it idly, pretending to be busy and not in the throes of a personal dilemma.

“Busy?” Fred asks. He throws himself on the seat next to her and lets out a long breath, as if winded. “Ginny just handed me my backside in a friendly game of quidditch,” he adds by way of explanation. “Being petrified only seems to have made her worse.” He squints over at her as she continues turning pages, tilting his head against the cushions. “Are you _studying_?”

“No,” Hermione says defensively, drawing the book closer to her. She is surrounded by all of her textbooks for the year; the word sounds weak, even to her. When Fred continues to look at her sceptically, she continues, “Well. I’m trying to figure out what to do with…these.”

“These?” Fred leans forward and grabs the next book on the stack. He turns it over and then grimaces as a cover with Lockhart’s face reveals itself. “Ah. _These_.”

Hermione squirms, embarrassed. “I’m going to throw them away, of course,” she says, hoping it doesn’t sound too hurried.

“You are?” Fred sounds surprised, which surprises Hermione in turn.

“Shouldn’t I?” she asks. “After all the… _horrible_ things he did, to get here.” She almost shudders, thinking of it. A thief, a monster, a villain…he was never the hero he made himself out to be. Never the hero she thought he was.

There was still so much she had to learn about the wizarding world.

“Well…,” Fred scratches his head, looking down at the book thoughtfully. “That’s true. But I thought you liked him, or something.”

“Or something,” Hermione says, making a face even as she turns red. She had never dared acknowledge her crush to Harry and Ron. They would have made fun of her, which she supposed she deserved. But the way Fred talks about it so casually, she sees no point in hiding it. “He’s handsome, but…vile. Absolutely vile.”

It seems she cannot find any other word to describe him. The feeling of loss and disappointment surprised even her. There are no words to describe that.

“Don’t force yourself,” Fred says after a moment. He gets up, throwing the book back in the pile, and then stretches. “There’s plenty of time to get rid of the books later.” He grins. “In fact, if you wait a month, I’m sure we can come up with a version of Quidditch that has some very…creative uses for these.” His blue eyes twinkle as he looks away in the distance, already lost in his thoughts, and Hermione can’t help but smile. She hopes he doesn’t see.

He leaves after a last wave in her direction, running up the stairs to his dorm two at a time.

When he leaves, Hermione looks back at the pile of books, thoughtful.

“Later,” she repeats to herself, and then sighs again.

Yes, she could do this later. She has all the time in the world to deal with this later. But right now, with the sun out and her best friends by the lake, possibly terrorising some mermaids—she will not have that again for a while.

Hermione leaves the books piled neatly on her nightstand and then leaves to join the boys. She did not realise, then, just how easily Fred’s words had soothed.

 **Five**.

To Ron, she’s all defensiveness and crackling anger, denial and stubbornness rolled into one with the sole purpose of not listening to him. He walks away in a huff, fist clenched around the cloth with Scabber’s blood on it as Hermione cradles Crookshanks close, biting down hard to stop her lips from trembling.

It’s too public, this fight. She can feel the eyes on her, but she dare not return to her dorm and fuel fires. She has to show she’s okay. She _is_ okay.

Hermione walks stiffly over to a free seat in the common room and sits down, eyes unseeing, stroking Crookshanks. Her cat purrs, enjoying the attention. Hermione wants to scream.

“Granger!” The shout is loud and ludicrous, cutting across the common room and making everyone turn around. Hermione jumps, and then scowls as Fred jumps into the armchair opposite her and grins.

“Weasley,” she says, cold. She is not in the mood to entertain a Weasley.

“I need your help,” he says, undaunted by her complete lack of a welcome. He leans in closer, whispering loud enough for half the people around them to hear. “I think George is stuck.”

Despite herself, Hermione finds herself listening. “What did you do this time?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at him.

“It might be easier to show you,” he says apologetically, and despite herself, Hermione finds herself standing up and following him out the common room.

They walk in silence, Hermione a step behind Fred. He’s talking incessantly the whole time, but Hermione’s mind is miles away. In her head, she sees blue eyes sparking with anger, face flushed and knuckles clenched white. She _hmms_ and agrees at the right moments, hoping he doesn’t notice.

It’s only when they’ve been walking for a full fifteen minutes, one corridor to the other, down three staircases and then back up, that Hermione realises something isn’t right.

“Fred,” she says flatly, coming to a stop, her arms aching with the weight of carrying Crookshanks. “Where’s George?”

Fred swivels around immediately, an almost guilty look on his face.

“Stuck?” he says unhelpfully. “I explained it all on the way. Weren’t you listening?”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, but she can’t refute what he’s said because she wasn’t listening, and he clearly knows she wasn’t.

“We’ve been going around in circles,” she accuses him, making a guess, and when Fred takes a step back, hand reaching for his wand defensively, she knows she is right.

“Wait,” he says, throwing a hand out placatingly. “Before you get mad—”

“We are _way_ past that point, Weasley,” Hermione snaps. Her anger returns with force, fueled by the pent-up frustration that had been plaguing her ever since Ron had stomped off. She lets Crookshanks jump from her arms and draws her own wand. “Give me one good reason.”

“Would hexing me make you feel better?” Fred lowers his wand, and his question is so unexpected that Hermione does too.

“What?”

Fred runs a hand through his hair. “I saw the fight,” he admits. “I didn’t think you’d want to stick around the common room after, except you’re _Hermione Granger_ , so of course you would have stayed.”

Hermione blinks. For a second, she feels stupid. _He knew. He knew and he pulled her out of there and he was—_ But she stops herself from finishing the thought. An unnameable emotion rises, leaving the anger and frustration flat, and its not till she sounds it out that she realises she’s laughing.

“I can’t believe you,” Hermione says, but Fred’s already got a shadow of a smile on his face.

“I’m not going to say Scabbers deserved it—he’s been in the family for a while,” he says. Hermione falls into step beside him; they begin walking again. “But,” Fred continues, “he’s a git in the way he handled it.”

He gives a sideways glance at Hermione, but she doesn’t notice.

“It’s not that I’m not sorry Scabbers is dead,” Hermione says, “but Crookshanks is a _cat_. I can’t exactly tell her to stay away, can I?”

The aforementioned cat pads behind them silently. At the mention of her name, she meows, and Hermione pauses long enough to scoop her back in her arms.

“I know,” Fred says.

“I wish Ron did, too.”

They walk on in silence, their feet easily leading them back to Gryffindor tower.

Hermione doesn’t get a chance to ask Fred why, or even say thanks. George catches them just around the corner and rushes his twin off.

 _Not so stuck after all_ , Hermione thinks to herself, and then is surprised to realise that she’s smiling.

 **Four**.

Ron and Harry are not talking, and Hermione’s torn between comforting the former and supporting the latter. The first task is days away, none of them know what Harry will have to face, and Hermione is so worried she thinks she could die.

She daren’t talk to Ron about it, who’s huffy about it every time the topic comes up, even though she _knows_ he’s worried too. And Harry—he’s got enough trying to figure out what the first task is. Adding her worries and concerns…he doesn’t need that kind of pressure.

So Hermione slips away from the common room one evening, when Harry is at practice and Ron is busy playing chess with Dean. She begins walking, no permanent direction in her mind. The air is cool outside, marking the incoming bite of winter, and most everyone is inside the castle at this time of day, so close to sunset, enjoying the warmth of the fireplace. Hermione wraps her arms tightly around herself and lets herself indulge in the feelings that had been plaguing her the past few weeks.

The tears leak out easily from her eyes, waiting to be validated and accounted for. Hermione doesn’t wipe them away, letting the warm trails on her cheeks mark catharsis. She picks a path that veers near to the Forbidden Forest, counting on the proximity to dissuade those who were braving the cold, for whatever reason, and ensuring her privacy.

She’s too lost in her own thoughts, startling out of them only when she walks into something.

She jumps back, shocked, at the same time as two hands reached out and steady her.

“Are you okay?”

Fred Weasley stands before her, and for a moment Hermione curses her luck.

“Uh, yes, fine,” Hermione says, subtly looking away and wiping her face under the guise of pushing her hair back. “What are you doing here?”

“Practice just ended.” Fred is frowning. “What are _you_ doing here? You look like you’re freezing.”

His hands drop from her shoulders, and Hermione notices that he still hasn’t changed out of his uniform. His hair is slicked with sweat, his face still flushed from the exercise, brows furrowed.

“I’m okay, I’ve got…” Hermione looks down at her hands, realising for the first time that she had forgotten to conjure her flames. “Never mind,” she mutters. “I was just taking a walk.”

“Granger…” Fred begins to say something, but then pauses, chewing his bottom lip, unsure.

“What is it?”

“If there’s something bothering you, you can tell me, yeah?”

Hermione blinks. She expects Fred to look away, or change his mind, but he looks back at her steadily, waiting for her answer. All at once, she realises just how much taller he has grown. She has to look up to meet his gaze. His hair, which used to be shorn short, is longer now, its edges brushing his collar. In that moment, under his scrutiny, Hermione feels self-conscious and abashed; she feels seen. She isn’t sure why Fred is offering, but words like _you’re Ron’s friend_ and _big brother_ cross her mind, though she dismisses the last one pretty quick. There is nothing brotherly about Fred.

“Yeah, thanks,” she says, dropping her eyes and looking away. “I’m fine.”

Fred does not respond immediately, but after a moment, when Hermione looks back up, he nods.

“All right. Catch you inside, yeah?” He presses a hand to her shoulder as he passes her by, and Hermione turns, watching him leave.

The warmth of his offer carries her through the next days and until the first task ends, when Harry succeeds, grabs the golden egg, and he and Ron make up. Days pass; things get tenser, but stronger between the Golden trio. Soon, Hermione forgets that moment happened. If Fred’s gaze looks for her in the common room, she doesn’t notice, and if Fred jokes around with her more than he used to, she doesn’t realise.

If his smile drops to something more pensive as he looks at her, sitting between Harry and Ron, checking their essays, Hermione doesn’t see.

**Three.**

It’s the way George whispers something to Fred before leaving their ‘worktable’ that catches Hermione’s eyes. Their worktable isn’t really theirs—it’s a corner of the common room that they’ve claimed to no one’s protest because Wizard’s Weasley Wheezes is in full swing, and everyone _loves_ them.

But Fred’s expression—brow furrowed, eyes gazing into the distance—looks anything but satisfied. Hermione’s a prefect, so she has already told the twins off multiple times this week, but there’s something about Fred’s expression now that intrigues her.

It’s late; other than her and Fred, there are only a handful of first years littered about on the couches. Hermione makes a decision and stands up.

“Hello, Fred.”

“Hermione!” Fred swivels around in his seat. There’s surprise in his tone, but something that sounds like pleasure, too. “To what do I owe this honour? We haven’t sold anything in a week.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Just wondering what you’re up to,” she says loftily, taking the liberty to peek over his shoulder at the table behind him. No cauldron or potion ingredients; instead, it is littered with parchment scribbled full of writings.

“Nothing incriminating here,” Fred says, following her gaze and casually shuffling some of the papers over. “You’re wasting your time—”

“—you’re working with asphodel?” Hermione asks, interrupting him without meaning to. She reaches past him to the piece of parchment that had caught her eye.

Fred squints up at her. “You’re not supposed to learn about that until your Sixth Year,” he says, and Hermione has the grace to flush.

“I read ahead,” she mutters, scanning the parchment. It was filled with potion ingredients as well as some very choice language, clearly indication Fred’s frustration. “Asphodel’s not supposed to be used with dragon blood,” she adds, looking up at Fred.

Fred, who was about to retort and grab the parchment out of her fingers, closes his mouth. For a moment, he frowns, and then his expression clears and he lets out a whoop of delight.

“I _knew_ I was missing something,” Fred says, really grabbing the parchment out of Hermione’s hands this time. His eyes scan it, quickly, and then he lets out a shout again, though quieter this time. The parchment flutters to the worktable as Fred digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “’Mione, I could _kiss_ you. George ‘n I were stuck on this for days.”

Hermione feels herself flush again, though she tries to mask it under a scowl.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to help yo—” she starts, but is cut off by Fred laughing.

“Of course,” he says. He taps his nose and winks. “Our little secret. I gotta tell Georgie…”

He grabs the parchment of the table and is gone before Hermione can add anything else, which is just as well because she’s not sure what she _would_ say. Her cheeks are still very warm, and she’s not sure how she feels about inadvertently helping the business. But…the idea of Fred poring over complex magic is appealing in a way she had never considered before.

Later in the year, they don’t get a chance to say goodbye.

Well, they don’t _have_ to, Hermione reflects. She wasn’t even entirely sure Fred and George had planned on leaving that soon. But the moment had presented itself, and they’d seized the opportunity, and Hermione would never admit this to anyone, but she kind of wished she could have left with them, too.

But she has OWLs to study for, and she would be damned if she let anything stop her from writing her exams this year.

She does not admit it, but Hermione misses him. Just a little bit, the tiniest. The common room is too quiet, these days.

**Two.**

_Brave_.

That’s all she can think, as Mrs. Weasley stares at the poster, aghast, and the others laugh. She smiles, but she cannot find the humour in the situation. She is old enough to understand Mrs. Weasley’s worries about the poster, but young enough that she can’t help but admire the twins for it.

She’s nervous as they all step inside the shop for the first time, but it doesn’t last for too long. She is immediately charmed by the shop, though she stops it from showing on her face. Everything is new, set-up with care and precision, and despite herself, Hermione can’t help but admire the sheer quantity and complexity of items being sold.

They don’t stay long—the shop is packed, and the twins barely have time to speak to them as it is. But Hermione stops, once more, to stare at the poster. The words _YOU-NO-POO_ flash before her eyes, and she finally manages to laugh.

Somehow, she knows exactly who wrote them.

**One.**

For once, the Burrow is quiet. Hermione is in the living room, trying to read a book. Everyone else is out, playing a game of quidditch while they still can. Hermione sighs, playing with the edge of her page, gaze fixed on the book but unseeing. The space where her heart beats is empty and devoid of anything but a lump of heaviness that refuses to go away. A few times, she has to wipe her eyes, pooling with tears she refuses to shed. Hermione doesn’t know how much time has passed with her sitting there, lost in her thoughts, until the couch rocks and there’s Fred Weasley having just fallen beside her. ~~~~

“All right, Hermione?” he asks. ~~~~

“What’s wrong?” she asks immediately, because Fred doesn’t have a smile on his face, and she doesn’t know why he would reach out to her unless it was a problem only she could solve.

He pauses for a second, but almost immediately, seems to come to a resolution and answers her.

“I heard from Ron about your parents,” Fred says, and that’s the last thing Hermione expects him to mention so she just stares at him for a moment.

“You—what?”

“Your parents.” Fred shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing at the door as if checking if anyone else was back. ~~.~~ “Are you okay?” he asks, fixing his gaze on her again.

She hasn’t been asked that yet. On one hand, she knows that the answer is clear, that everyone has been giving her space and taking care of her. But on the other hand…

No one has asked her that.

A lump forms in her throat that refuses to budge, even though Hermione tries to clear it discreetly.

“I’m fine,” she says. “It was…they’re okay, at least. Safe.”

For something to do, she closes the book in her hands, but the action is over too soon. Fred is still looking at her, and after a few moments pass, Hermione is unable to avoid his gaze any longer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and there is something deeper in the way he says it. All at once, Hermione sees this conversation as if it were a painting: a girl with too-bushy hair on the couch next to a sweaty, red-haired almost-adult, the looks on their faces of sorrow and heartbreak and an unspoken ache so deep it might be felt all through the wizarding world.

“Thank you,” Hermione says.

He hesitates for a moment and then reaches out and squeezes her knee before getting up from the couch. He runs a hand through his hair, almost awkwardly, but the motion looks as natural on him as his place on the quidditch team.

“If you need anything…yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hermione echoes. Fred nods once more, lingering for a second as if he wants to say more, and then turns and leaves.

She thinks of that moment during the long months ahead, when she barely knows if he’s alive. She searches for hints of his voice over the radio, wondering if it’s the last time she’ll ever hear him, and then wondering why she cares.

It’s almost a year again before they’re reunited, and only then briefly, on the cusp of a battle greater than their lives put together. They don’t get a chance to talk, though their eyes meet once, and Hermione recognizes her fiery determination mirrored in his blue eyes. And then they’re off, wands drawn, the twins back-to-back as they fight Death Eaters.

At least they’re alive.

At least, he’s alive.

At least…

**Zero.**

She dreams of blue eyes, a freckle-dusted face, and red hair. By daylight, her dreams make more sense: it’s Ron, it always was. She turns to him, notices him, finds satisfaction in the red blush that spreads across the back of his neck when their eyes meet for longer than is necessary, or when the backs of their hands brush against each other as they walk. He is bashful, too loud and too tall, hair aflame and blue eyes piercing, and Hermione thinks, _I can love this_.

After all, why else would she dream of him? Hermione is not a believer of fairytales and stories, but she has spent enough time in the wizarding world to believe in magic. The sense of security and warmth that she feels when she dreams…it is worth chasing down. She and Ron are not there, yet. It is still push and pull, in parts anger and remorse and a need to be seen between them. But they will get there, Hermione thinks. They just need time. ~~~~

When he shows her how much he has changed, how he has grown and how he has started to care for the things she cares for, well, Battle of Hogwarts be damned. She has to kiss him. Once. That is how it is supposed to be, right?

His arms wrap around her tight. They feel strong, warm. There is that familiar flutter in her stomach again. Yes, she thinks as he kisses her back, as he lifts her off her feet and spins her around. She can love _this_.

And then George dies, and everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is inspired by a lot of things, but it all ends and begins with Fred Weasley and Hermione Granger being intended for each other from the start. There are some non-canonical details (Fred's blue eyes, and Hermione's memory charm on her parents being irreversible), but on the whole, the story is meant to be canon-compliant.
> 
> This is my first multi-chapter fic, so please be patient when reading. I expect there to be plot holes, character inconsistencies, and sloppy dialogue. I'll do my best to make it coherent, but despite all that, I'm SO excited to write a story for Fred and Hermione, so I hope you'll enjoy reading it too!


	2. An Ending and a Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, and some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _보고 싶다  
>  I miss you  
>  얼마나 기다려야  
>  How much longer should I wait   
>  또 몇 밤을 더 새워야  
>  and how many sleepless nights should I spend   
>  널 보게 될까  
>  before I get to see you  
>  만나게 될까  
>  before I get to meet you  
>  _
> 
> **\-- Spring Day by BTS**
> 
> (translation credit: https://doolsetbangtan.wordpress.com/2018/06/28/spring-day/)

Low voices filtered through her consciousness, and Hermione blinked, frowning at the light, and then turned and buried her face in the arm of the sofa. Her whole body was aching. Last night, she had sat against Ron, his head on her shoulder, as the family finalized the details of the funeral. Sometime between then and now, he had left her with the softest pillow and the warmest blanket. It covered her now, drawn right up to her chin even though the first week of May was almost over and golden afternoon sunlight was filtering through the window and right onto her face.

And there were voices, in the kitchen, talking softly. Serious voices, words floating through the air to her, nudging her awake.

“—and it happened with the last casualty. As soon as I was sworn in I felt the—”

“—but that’s impossible—”

“—I’m telling you Arthur—”

And then the voices dipped again into low indistinct murmurs.

Mr. Weasley was up, then. And, by the sound of it, Kingsley Shacklebolt, new Minister for Magic, was here. Did he want to see Harry? Hermione frowned, pushing the thought away, the way she had been pushing away any thoughts of the Battle. It had been almost five days, and she did not want to talk _or_ think about it. She didn’t want to think about anything.

But then, with a pang, thoughts like gunfire. Her mind did not care for the fragility of her heart. Ron. _George_. Fred. Molly, Arthur. Friends hurt, and friends lost forever.

Death. Grief.

Her stomach twisted horribly, and Hermione felt that she would throw up. She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the feeling, and forced herself into movement. Forced herself to climb those stairs to the bathroom, to ignore the piece of coal burning inside her chest. Voldemort was gone. Harry had killed him. Oh, but Merlin, had the price been high.

 _Tonks. Lupin._ The coal burned hotter and hotter, and Hermione felt her chest tighten and pinch. Clenching her jaw, Hermione paused on the threshold of the landing, taking a moment to collect herself and push the thoughts out of her head. It was over. It was over. Maybe if she repeated it enough times to herself, she would believe it.

With one last deep breath, Hermione reached out for the bathroom door. The same moment, someone pulled the door open from the inside, and they both startled.

“Hermione,” Fred said in surprise as Hermione jumped back. His voice was hoarse, heavy; his eyes red-rimmed and purpled. They did not need to acknowledge the obvious. He had not spoken much since the Battle, and this was the first word he’d said to her since then.

“Fred,” Hermione said. Seeing him brought all the emotions back, and for a desperate moment, she was back there on the field, watching as the spell flew towards Fred, watching as George shouted and flung himself forward, watching as the wall collapsed over them and only one twin stirred. Her throat seized, aching, tight, and she couldn’t stop her eyes from stinging. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed, and wiped the tears away before they could fall. It was impossible to look and Fred and not see George looking back. The burden Fred would bear for the rest of his life was impossible to comprehend.

“S’okay,” Fred said. He ran a hand through his hair as he stepped back from the bathroom door.

It was the first time the two of them had been alone in well over a year. Hermione stood rooted to her spot, wanting, desperately, to reach out to him, or at least _say_ something. But Fred did not seem interested; he began moving towards her to the stairs, and, panicked, Hermione called out his name to stop him.

“Fred!”

He paused and looked up at her, head tilted questioningly.

“Just…if you need someone—"

For a second, Fred’s dull eyes flickered. Hermione wondered if he remembered saying those words to her. She dropped her gaze first, before he could say anything back, and brushed past him to the bathroom. As she closed the door behind her, she looked back, just once, and thought, _oh_.

He looked so lost, standing there by the bannister, staring down the stairs, expression vacant, that for a moment Hermione felt that he was actually missing a leg, the deficit was so apparent. She closed the door behind her, but it was a long moment before she moved again.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was still in the kitchen when Hermione returned. Fred had made his way there, too, though he did not say anything when she walked in. He sat in the corner, a steaming mug of tea in front of him, but untouched in a manner that made it obvious that Arthur had put it there.

“Morning,” Arthur Weasley said as Hermione walked in. Both men were nursing empty mugs of tea. Molly was not in the kitchen – a first in all the years Hermione had been at the Burrow. The kitchen looked smaller, sadder, without her there. “One lump or two?”

Hermione almost smiled. “Two,” she said, and Arthur waved a wand. A teacup slid into place in front of her, and Hermione took a seat, wrapping her hands around the hot cup.

“Thanks.”

Mr. Weasley waved away her gratitude, then sighed as his eyes fell on Kingsley again.

“Well, Minister,” he said. “You best be off. I’ll share the news here.”

“Yes,” Kingsley said, getting to his feet. He gave a short nod towards Hermione, taking his leave, before turning to Arthur once more. He grasped his arm, tight, holding his gaze for a long moment. “I really am sorry,” he said, letting go. “About all this. Right when you haven’t even—”

“It’s all right,” Arthur said, trying for a wan smile. He looked tired, older than he had yesterday. Hermione busied herself suddenly, looking deep within her tea as if it held the answers to anything. They were burying George that afternoon. There was no more reason to wait.The finality of that thought winded her, and she stilled, flashes of green light reflecting in her mind’s eye.

“Morning.” Ron shuffled into the kitchen, hair messy, still in his pajamas. He nodded at Kingsley, and then his eyes fixed on Hermione and his expression softened. “Morning,” he said again, quieter this time, as he pulled out a chair next to her.

“Morning,” Hermione said, just as quiet. She held his gaze for a moment, noticing the tiredness on his face that hadn’t really gone away over the past year, but that had somehow become infinitely worse over the course of the last week. “How are you?”

“Y’know,” Ron said. He shrugged, glancing at Fred and then back again, eyes lingering off to the distance. Hermione reached out and squeezed his hand, once, drawing his attention back to her.

“I know,” she said. “Tea?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Arthur had walked Kingsley out the back door. As Hermione waved her wand to get Ron some tea, they all heard the loud crack of Kingsley apparating away.

“What’s the bloody minister doing here so early in the morning?” Ron muttered.

“He was here when I woke up,” Hermione said, voice low. “Talking to your dad.”

Ron frowned, but did not press the matter as Arthur walked back into the kitchen. There was a permanent furrow in the man’s brow, now. Hermione did not know if it was because of the battle, or the minister’s appearance, or the fact that there was now one extra chair at the table.

The kitchen filled quickly, after that, though Molly did not make an appearance. Harry came down first, slipping into the other chair beside Hermione, and then Ginny, who made a beeline straight for the last empty chair next to Harry. Wordlessly, Harry wrapped his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close, as she held tight around his waist. Mr. Weasley just magicked tea for them, and set about to ‘breakfast’, as he called it, though it ended up being nothing more than burnt toast. No one noticed. Percy and Charlie trickled in last. Percy looked, if it was possible, worse than any of them, except for maybe Fred. His hair was standing on end, as if he had run his hand through it over and over again, and he had deep bruises under his eyes. There was a still in the low murmured conversations as he had appeared in the doorway. And then, Fred had nudged the chair next to himself, and everything had gone back to normal, just like that.

They buried him in St. Ottery Catchpole, at the old family cemetery where all Weasleys were buried for decades past. The funeral was small. Only the people already at the Burrow attended, along with Bill and Fleur, who had floo’d over that morning. Molly was leaning heavily onto Arthur as they made their way to the village with a hearse pulled by magic. They were all leaning on each other, dragging each other with arms on shoulders and hands clasped together, forcing themselves to take a step after the other to watch one Weasley twin be laid to rest.

Hermione couldn’t watch. She knew Ron was facing the burial, teeth clenched, face stoic, so she buried her face in his chest and let the tears run free. Beside them, Fred stood alone. He had shrugged off any attempt at contact, though his brothers had tried. Ginny had been most successful, and even then, he had pushed her hand away and taken a step back, silent.

She could hear him, though. Tiny sobs, breath dragging through his lung like it might be his last. Hermione was attuned to his grief in a way she had never been for anything else. She had seen death before, felt it, knew the war was going to result in so much worse before it was over. But this…this was petrifying. It was unfathomable.

The return was easier. It was over, at least. A light wind was blowing, the sun setting, as they walked back together slowly. Hermione’s hand was clasped in Ron’s, the feeling welcome now, when all else seemed numb. They were to go back for dinner; Hermione did not know where or how the food would make an appearance, and at this point, she did not care. She could not even imagine eating anything.

But the smell of fresh dinner greeted them down the street from the Burrow. Fleur had gone ahead of the party, it seemed. There were lights in kitchen, and when they entered, the table had already been set. Fleur wiped her hands on her apron and moved forward to wrap her arms around Molly.

“I took ‘ze liberté, Molly,” she whispered to her mother-in-law before ushering her into the seat and bringing over a giant pot of stew. It smelled good, and the moment she had her first bite, Hermione realised how hungry she was. So was everyone else, for there were clean plates almost immediately, with seconds almost soon after.

“If we’re all done,” Arthur said as the meal came to an end. He did not have to try hard to grab everyone’s attention; the room had been a silent one, save for the clinking of cutlery and china. Arthur sighed as all the eyes drifted to him. He did not look pleased at having to convey whatever it was he was going to say. His mouth drooped lower. “The minister was here this morning.”

Beside her, Hermione felt Ron tense. Suddenly, Hermione did not want to hear what Kingsley Shacklebolt had been doing in their kitchen so soon after the war had ended. Ron must have had the same idea; his hand reached out to grab her shoulder and squeezed tightly, knuckles white. They had only just buried George; it seemed unfair for them to receive news that sounded as unpleasant to listen to as it was to deliver, judging by Arthur’s expression.

“What is it?” Ginny asked, breaking the silence everyone else seemed so afraid of.

“The battle resulted in…too many casualties. Too many for our magical population to remain sustainable. George…,” He paused, swallowed, then continued. “George was the last one. Magical laws for protecting the wizarding population were triggered, laws that require…well. Kingsley was over to tell me that the Ministry will be encouraging unions between as many wizards and witches as possible. To ensure our future.” Arthur said the last sentence as if he was quoting from a bad enlistment flyer. “Kingsley thought I should hear it from him first. The letters will be sent out tomorrow.”

Hermione felt her mouth dry. She remembered reading about this, and ‘encourage’ was the mild way of putting it. When the magical population in a given area dropped below a certain threshold, the marriage law came into effect, coupling wizards and witches based on obscured compatibility criteria and requiring them to produce a child within the year after their wedding.

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“The ministry is forcing us to get married and have children,” Hermione said quietly. She clenched her teeth as everyone turned to look at her. Ron’s hand dropped from her shoulder as she continued, “The Ministry will be making the matches. Perhaps favouring those already together, but ultimately…we won’t be able to control any of this.”

Arthur’s expression suddenly made a lot of sense.

“But surely this doesn’t apply to most of us?” Harry said.

“We are all of age,” Hermione said hollowly. “Except perhaps Ginny.”

Ginny grabbed Harry’s hand in hers, glaring at Hermione’s words.

“I’ll be of age in August,” she said defensively. “And anyway, most of you are too young to get married. This is bloody stupid.”

“Stupid, but not entirely unreasonable.” Hermione clenched her hands into fists for a moment, wondering whether she would be able to bear the rest of this conversation, before deciding that no, she would not. She stood up abruptly, eyes unseeing. “Excuse me,” she said, and then apparated to her and Ginny’s bedroom the moment she was out of the kitchen.

The tears came fast and easy, though Hermione was not even sure what she was crying about. The loss of her choice? Or the thought of this, of life, so soon after all the death, like a sentence to be carried out for the living? All she could see in her mind was Fred’s face when she had talked about a future, the way his expression had closed up even further and his eyes had retreated to a place no one else could reach.

It was impossible. The tears did not stop.

There was a knock on the door, after a few moments. Hermione ignored it, but the door swung open anyway.

Ron, looking scared, looking worried, looking determined. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, and then shut it again. Wordlessly, he walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her.

“We’ll be okay,” he said, the only words he dropped into her ears.

Hermione held him back, not sure if this was the future she wanted, very afraid that it might turn out to be, and said nothing.


	3. The Choice Unchosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letters arrive, forcing Hermione and Ron to make a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Where did we go wrong?  
>  I know we started out all right.  
>  Where did we go wrong?  
>  I swear I knew we’d last this time.  
>  Where did we go wrong?  
>  Or did you, did you change your mind?  
>  How could you change your mind?  
>  Who got inside your mind?   
>  _
> 
> **\-- 13 by LANY**

The owls arrived the next morning, exactly like Arthur said they would. A big, grey one with feathers crowning its head arrived first, tapping sharply at the window. The family was all gathered in the kitchen for another sombre breakfast; quiet conversations dotted the table here and there, but they petered out almost immediately with the first tap. Charlie opened the window and the owl flew directly to Harry, depositing a large envelope on his lap. Taking a moment to preen self-importantly, the owl let out a screech and flew off, leaving silence in its midst.

Ginny swore under her breath, the toast falling from her fingers. Harry did not smile at her, but his expression made his feelings clear.

“It’s from the ministry,” he said needlessly, turning the envelope over in his hands.

“Open it,” Ginny said. Her eyes were hard, burning. Harry looked at her, once, and then nodded. Decisively, he tore it open, letting the ripped pieces fall on to the table as he pulled out a stiffly-folded piece of parchment.

“Dear Mr. Potter,” he began, “It is the duty of every witch and wizard to uphold the inaugurate laws of the land in which they reside. With the end of the recent era of darkness, it is imperative that we work together to preserve the best interests of the Wizarding World in any way we can. The recent surge in casualties has instigated the necessity for witches and wizards to join hands and homes… ” Someone around the table snorted as Harry muttered through the letter quickly, eyes searching for a name, yet afraid to find it, until he let out a breath and read, clearly, “Your official match is on the second enclosed page. Congratulations.”

Charlie rolled his eyes at that, but Harry and Ginny were too tense to notice. Even Molly, who had finally joined them for breakfast,was quiet, and try as she might, Hermione could not go back to her eggs. She watched as Harry thumbed through the sheets, finding that there were indeed two. He grabbed the second one and pulled it to the forefront, and then stared at it for a long moment, hardly breathing.

“Mr. Harry James Potter,” he said finally, “and Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley.”

Sighs of relief. Ginny let out a yell that was half a sob and threw her arms around Harry, mindless of her parents.

“I’m getting married,” she said, a grin on her face despite it all, and even Molly mustered up a smile.

“We don’t have to yet,” Harry said, his arms still around Ginny, but he was grinning too. He handed her the letter. “It says that we can’t get married until you get your letter, which won’t be until you’re of age. And even then we have a year.”

“As long as you’re marrying _me_ at the end of the day, I don’t care when it happens,” Ginny said, picking up her toast and biting into it with greater gusto. Harry laughed, his eyes meeting Hermione’s as he did, and she mustered up a smile to shoot at him.

_Congratulations_ , she mouthed at him, and he rolled his eyes at her, toasting her with his toast before he bit into it.

The rest of breakfast passed with stilted conversations and attention fixed towards the windows, trying to spot any other owls on the horizon. A nervous energy buzzed through them, but it was not until they were clearing the table, a lot of the breakfast left uneaten, when the owls began arriving, all at once.

First, an owl each for Charlie and Percy, tip-tapping at the window in quick succession. And then Another one, and another, and another, flying in through the windows now left open, until almost every person at the table had an owl in front of them. Seven more surrounded Ron, Hermione, and Fred; one of them hooted forlornly, looking lost.

“What—”

“This one’s for George,” Ginny said, voice tight as she grabbed the letter from its leg. The owl hooted once and left.

“I’ve got two,” Hermione said, frowning. Her owls nibbled her finger softly before departing.

“Me too,” Fred said, holding up his envelopes. And then—

“Me, too.” Ron scowled. “What the bloody hell is this?”

“George wasn’t the last one,” Hermione said quietly, her mind spinning, trying to make sense of this, trying to understand what was happening. “He didn’t trigger the law; Kingsley was wrong. If these letters were written as a result of the numbers dropping too low…he might have been the last one to die, but he was not the one who triggered the law. George has one because it was written before he died.”

“Open it,” Fred said, the most he had said all week. His voice was tight. Silently, Ginny ripped into it. She didn’t even bother with the first sheet, going straight for the second page. After a moment, she raised her eyes and met Fred’s.

“Angelina Johnson,” she said.

“Oh, George,” Fred said, running a hand through his hair and turning away. Only he knew what that would have meant for his twin. Molly was sniffling again, face buried into a handkerchief. Arthur had his arm around her shoulders; they were both trying to be strong. It was engraved in every line on their face. But such strength did not outlast time, and the pain was still too raw to touch. Hermione turned her attention to the envelopes lying before her, and found that her heart was thumping faster now as she looked at them.

“Why do we have two?” Ron asked. He had already ripped one open, but was playing with the corners of the parchment, too nervous to unfold it.

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, but her mind had already raced through the possibilities, and she could only wait for a moment more before she added, “One must have been sent with George’s. And another…after.”

“Why would that…?”

But Hermione did not have an answer to that. Instead, she tore through both her envelopes, holding the first page of both in front of her. One was longer, with a detailed preamble like Harry’s. The second had just two lines printed under the Ministry’s letterhead.

“ _Please disregard the last_ ,” she read. “ _Your official match is on the second enclosed page. Congratulations._ ” Biting her lip, Hermione flipped the pages, reaching for the old one first. Already, part of her was recoiling, not wanting to see what was written on the letters. Beside her, Hermione could see Ron finally ripping open his own envelopes, too. Fred’s envelopes lay before him, untouched. He did not seem to care about what future the Ministry had decided for him.

“No,” Hermione whispered, reading her first, old match, her heart sinking. “Ron...” She shuffled the pages around again, looking for the final one, the one that would seal her fate. She smoothed it out, fingers shaking, reading and reading it again.

_Miss Hermione Jean Granger and Mr. Fred Weasley._

She looked up, pressing her lips together tightly so she would not cry. Unbidden, her eyes went to Fred and fixed there. Fred was still staring listlessly at the letter discarded beside his own, the one that marked George’s match. He did not know her name had been decreed next to his, not yet.

“Fred,” she said, voice small. He startled and his blue eyes jumped to meet hers, a question apparent in them. She licked her lips, trying to sound out what it was she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. Fred’s eyes narrowed in concern, and he leaned forward and grabbed her letter from her hand. When he met her gaze again, his eyes were wide, and his face white as a sheet. He looked terrified. Beside her, Ron let out a sound that was a cross between a yelp and a groan. He had turned a weird shade of grey.

“What’s wrong?” Harry was by her side in a moment, snatching the papers from her hand. He glanced through the top-most sheet, and then at Hermione, and then back at the sheet.

“Wait,” he said, and the way the word came out of his mouth, all strangled and small, made Hermione almost sob right there and then.

“What is it?” Arthur’s reassuring voice broke through the confusion, and Hermione found herself turning to the patriarch of the family, seeking out the comforting face amongst the many gathered in the room.

“It’s Fred,” Hermione said, swallowing. She refused to look at him. “The match, I mean. Fred and I. The match. We match.” The words refused to come.

Bill let out a surprised whistle; Fleur let a French curse slip under her breath. Hermione thought she was devastated, but it was more than that. Or, it was less; she did not feel anything at all. Frowning, she turned to look at Ron.

“Siobhan Choi,” he said, swallowing. He shook the paper in her direction, as if she could make sense of it. “ _Siobhan Choi_. I don’t even _know_ a Siobhan Choi.”

“Hufflepuff fifth year,” Hermione said automatically. “She took arithmancy with me.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“But what about…,” Ron tried again. He opened his mouth to say something again, and then shut it again, settling for a shrug. The arm that had been brandishing the paper towards her a moment ago sank to his side. “Are we supposed to go with this?” he asked finally. More quietly, he added, “I wanted it to be you.”

Silence in the kitchen behind them. Ten pairs of eyes, trained at them, watching their faces, waiting for a reaction. Hermione realised that she and Ron had not talked about whatever it was that lay between them. Not directly.

They should have talked about it last night.

“There must be a way to repeal this,” Hermione said at last. She lifted the sheets of paper in her hands, scanning them again, and then again. Her fingers shook slightly, and the words blurred in front of her, but Hermione impatiently wiped at her eyes and shuffled the sheets, looking for answers.

“We can contact the Ministry,” Arthur said quietly, but his voice was sad. Defeated. Hermione smoothed out her letter again, but it was more an excuse for her to ignore the room and the people in it; she had already memorised the contents. Arthur was wrong; there was no one at the Ministry who would help them, and the letter made that explicit. The matches were final. Any talk of choice or previous commitment was out of the window; it was this, or risk violating Wizarding law.

“’Mione.” Ron shuffled up to her and grabbed her attention with a touch to her elbow. When she looked back at him, he shrugged, and tilted his head to the side, gesturing to the door. Hermione did not have to say anything. Silently, Ron led her out of the room and into the garden, away from the bustle of the kitchen, away from her thoughts and her emotions and into a space where they could talk about this with the only people for whom it mattered: her, and him.

Awkwardly, they stood side by side. It was an unfairly sunny day. A warm breeze was blowing through the garden, rifling their hair and carrying the scent of flowers and fruit in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped, almost too cheerily, and Hermione had the irrational thought of silencing it permanently with a swish of her wand. Forcing herself away from the dark thought, she silently whispered _muffliato_ at the windows and then draw the curtains for good measure.

“Ginny has her nose pressed practically to the panes,” she said as Ron looked at her questioningly.. He snorted, but she could tell that it was feigned. Their emotions were still in turmoil, and it was hard to know where to begin, what to say.

Merlin’s beard. She did not even know what to _think_.

She had kissed him during the Battle because she did not know if she would ever get to again. They had spent the past week drawing comfort from each other, never farther than a hand hold. Knowing he was next to her, that she could turn to him and he to her had been an insurmountable relief in the days following the Battle, when she had felt so, so alone. Her parents were still in Australia; they would never know her again. Ron and Harry, the Weasleys…they were the only family she had now.

Was that enough for her to fight for a match with Ron?

Ron nudged her with his elbow. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Uhm.” Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and shrugged. “Us, I suppose.”

Ron let out a long breath.

“Is there an us?” he asked quietly. “What happened at the Battle…” His ears flushed a deep red, but he continued on, “It was war. I wouldn’t have…even after the time we’ve spent, if you didn’t want—if it wasn’t what you…I’ll understand if—"

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “I…” she hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to say the words that rose to her tongue. The words from the letter flashed before her eyes again, and Hermione sighed, the words spilling over regardless of whether she thought they should be said. “I want there to be, Ron. But I don’t know if this something we can win. And I am…so tired. I don’t think I have it in me to fight again.”

Ron looked at her, mouth a thin line, but eyes so warm and bright that Hermione felt her own begin to sting with tears. 

“After all that, it’s not fair,” Ron said finally, making the decision for both of them. He stepped beside her, hands in pockets, but made no other motion to step closer or reach for her. “To hold a law like this against us.”

“No, it’s not,” Hermione said sadly. She turned to look at him. “I thought it was over. Making hard choices. Having to choose between what is easy, and what is right. I thought it could be easy.”

It would have been, with him. They would have been happy. She could see it now: a little boy with her brown hair and his blue eyes. A girl as studious as her with a flaming mane and her smile. A small house somewhere near London, a future with laughs and petty squabbles and just enough love.

They would have been happy. They could be happy.

“This isn’t even for anything _right_.” Ron’s voice was rough, like it sometimes sounded after a Quidditch game, or when he was sick. He sighed, nudged her gently with his shoulder, but did not add anything else. She could feel the way he wanted her to speak and say something, anything.

“We should repeal it,” Hermione said automatically, the words bursting forth from her mouth, fast, tumbling over each other. “Make the case that the laws themselves had matched us, that it just wasn’t _right_ to change the match on us.” The words were futile, a fake hope she wanted to offer Ron as retribution for every other reassurance that she could not give him.

“Can we really? What does the letter say?”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing,” she said. “It says nothing.” She bit her lip, brows furrowed. When she had followed Ron out into the garden, Hermione had thought that she wanted to have this conversation now. But the more she thought about it, the less anything made sense. Last week, her life was forfeit in any way, if it meant the end of Voldemort. She had not considered a future. She had not dared dream about it.

Ron’s shoulders slumped. After a moment, he tugged Hermione’s hand in his, entwining their fingers. “If this might be the last time we talk about this, can we _really_ talk about it?”

Hermione looked up at him and nodded, forcing a smile on her face.

“Yes, Ronald. Let’s talk about it,” she said, letting a lilt of a teasing tone creep into her voice that she did not feel. Her heart was breaking that they had to have this conversation at all. She kept seeing flashes of the life they could have had in front of her eyes. The feeling of his fingers in hers felt so right, but could it belong to her? In that moment, Hermione felt like she knew the answer to that question, and it was not one she was ready to admit. Ron managed to pull out a wan smile of his own in response.

“I really liked you, ‘Mione. I really still do.” His fingers squeezed hers, almost painfully. “I know I’ve been an absolute idiot when it comes to letting you know, but I haven’t thought about anything else for the past year.” He stopped, nervous, the barest of pauses. And then he took a deep breath and said, all at once, “I had so many things I wanted to do with you. I wanted sunlit days with you at Hogwarts, roaming the grounds. I wanted to pull you into empty classrooms and make you forget about being caught, just because you were with me. I wanted to take you to Hogsmeade, a proper date. Hold your hand to breakfast and drop you off to your dormitory at night. I thought about all of this, Hermione. I’ve been dreaming about it.”

A lump formed in Hermione’s throat. She had thought about these things, too. She had dreamed of them when they had been at Hogwarts, and she had dreamed about them when they had been on the run, camping for weeks with no more warm fires and hot dinners to comfort them.

But it had become harder to believe in those daydreams, despite how hard Hermione had tried to hold on to Ron. Hermione would be returning to Hogwarts to complete her Seventh Year, and in her heart, she knew that she would be the only one. The realisation had built an ache inside her that she could not get rid of, even when she had sat next to one with her hand held by the other. She had never been apart from them, not by choice. Now she would be spending a whole year alone.

Ron cleared his throat.“I know you’ll be going back in September, ‘Mione.”

Hermione’s heart jumped and stuttered, startled that he had read her thoughts so plainly. But as Ron continued, Hermione saw that he wasn’t even looking at her; his mind was mirroring hers, as it so often had before. As it so often did. “I won’t. I’m done. We won’t have Hogwarts, but I wanted to give you…I wanted us to--” He broke off, unable to find the words he wanted. But he did not need to; Hermione knew exactly what he was trying to say.

He wanted them to have had the chance to build something different, something new. Outside of Hogwarts, and all the ways they had known each other, stepping together into a beginning.

But Hermione was not ready for that, she realised as she looked at the familiar face before her. She was not ready to let go of her best friend to forge a relationship that would change _everything._

Her stomach flipped and fluttered like it did when she was nervous. In her mind’s eye, Hermione saw two roads stretch in front of her, and she knew which one she would pick. She was a Gryffindor for a reason.

“I wanted that, too,” she said thickly. It hurt to look straight at him, so Hermione trained her gaze at the distant apple tree, tracing it’s gnarly trunk with her eyes. “I did. I meant it.” She echoed his words of earlier, repeated them, willing them to be true. She had wanted them to be true.

A tear trailed down her face as she thought of their kiss, their first and their last. Ron did not reply. He turned to look at her instead, and after a moment, he carefully disentangled their fingers to wipe the tear away from her face. And then he took a step back from her with a finality that made Hermione realise the conversation was over.

“The world never gave us a damn chance,” he said.

And that was the truth of it.

There was nothing more to say. The silence between them stretched long enough for it to become uncomfortable. Hermione could feel it grow colder between them, and right when she thought of turning tail and running to the other side of the Burrow, Ron cleared his throat, muttered something that sounded like a goodbye, and apparated. She did not know where he went.

Hermione let out a sigh, of relief or regret, she was not sure, but glad enough to be alone with her thoughts for the first time that morning. She went and sank on to the bench right outside the kitchen window. Listlessly, she began going through the spells she practiced each morning, before giving up and settling on making bubbles trail out of the tip of her wand.

A dull emptiness throbbed inside of her, although Hermione wasn’t sure she deserved to mourn the loss of what she had killed herself. Her mind turned then, instead, to the other name that had been listed next to hers.

_Miss Hermione Granger and Mr. Fred Weasley_

Oh, it was impossible. Even thinking the words, remembering the way they had looked on the parchment, gave her goosebumps. Was she dreaming? Of all the people she could have been matched with, Fred! Mischief-maker, Fred! Owner of a joke shop, Fred! The bane of her life as prefect, Fred!

The thoughts spiralled and then floated away, like wisps of smoke. Hermione did not try to catch them. She let her mind wander, and watched the sunlight glimmer and glisten and reflect the light caught on the bubbles that still floated around her.

Hermione sat on that bench until the sun was high in the sky, content to avoid any other person for as long as she could. She figured that lunch would be served soon anyway, at which point someone would come find her. The Gryffindor in her was urging her to get up and find her own way inside—and almost succeeding—when Harry found her.

“There you are,” he said. “Mrs. Weasley says to come for lunch.”

“I was just headed in,” Hermione said, but at the sight of Harry, she relaxed back onto the bench again. Harry joined her, and wordlessly put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug.

“I saw Ron,” he said after a moment. “Earlier. He didn’t want to talk.”

Hermione’s eyes burned again. “He told me he’s not returning to Hogwarts,” she said.

“I know,” he said quietly. He paused, the briefest moment of hesitation, before he added “I’m not either.” She had expected as much, but it hurt to hear it all the same.

“There was no point, then,” she said, continuing as if he hadn’t spoken. “The Ministry gave us no choice, and anyway, what we wanted from each other lay within the walls of Hogwarts. He hadn’t really thought about what came after and…neither had I.”

“I’m sorry.”

Hermione shrugged. She did not say anything else, grateful for his silence comfort. After a moment, Harry got to his feet and tugged her up by the hand.

“You didn’t finish breakfast,” he said. “Reckon it’s time we get you some lunch.” A pause, and then, “Don’t worry. Ginny threatened to hex anyone who so much as _looked_ at you or Ron, so it’ll be okay.”

“Are Percy and Charlie—” Hermione asked, suddenly remembering that they had received letters, too, and that she had no idea how it had turned out for them.

“Happy,” he said. “Percy got someone he fancied, it seems. She works with him at the Ministry. And Charlie, well.” Harry paused to grin. “He’s happy to meet her, but it might have something to do with the fact that she’s related to Newt Scamander.”

“They’re happy,” Hermione echoed, and was relieved to find that she was happy for them, too. “Good.”

“It will work out, Hermione,” Harry said seriously. “I know it will. You’ll be able to figure a way out. I’m sure Fred will help—he’s an okay bloke, you know—”

“I know,” Hermione interrupted, cutting Harry off. “It’s not that.”

“Er, good,” Harry said, surprised. He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly stilted again. “Um, shall we…?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath and following him indoors. Ron was everywhere in that house, a living reminder in every person she would talk to. Seeing him after their conversation would be awkward at best, and…Hermione did not want to envision what it could feel like at worst. But she would make the best of it, and she knew that he would, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, I did try writing the conversation where Hermione and Ron try to work it out, despite the fact that they're matched to different people. It didn't quite work out in this story, but it could definitely be a conversation for a Ronmione centric fic...
> 
> Anyway. Let me know what you thought of this chapter! Any guesses for what's next?


	4. Life Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tries to find her footing in a world that's moving much too fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: death, grief, allusions to PTSD.
> 
> _You don’t have to change when I’m around you  
>  So go ahead and say what’s on your mind, on your mind   
>  When you’re with me, no judgement   
>  You can get that from anyone else  
>  You don’t have to prove nothing  
>  You can just be yourself   
>  _
> 
> **\-- No Judgement - Niall Horan**

Over the next few days, one thing became increasingly obvious: the Ministry was pushing the marriage agenda _hard._ _The_ _Daily_ Prophet was advertising an unprecedented success rate (“Bollocks,” Ron said when Arthur read that out from the morning paper) and predicting a summer full of weddings.

But if _The Daily Prophet_ didn’t celebrate the upcoming seasons of weddings, there would be very little to celebrate. It was still all hands on deck at the Ministry, and the marriage law, as everyone had started referring to it, was the least of their problems. Death Eaters who refused to believe Voldemort was gone were creating trouble within the wizarding and muggle worlds alike, and although it was far easier to capture them with no leader and their backbone broken, it still meant late nights and paperwork. Arthur and Percy had been given no time for grieving after the funeral; they had had to be back the next day.

In fact, Hermione had already overhead Arthur talking to Ron and Harry in quiet tones about the cases, and how the Ministry would need all the help they could get. She assumed that they thought everyone else had gone to bed, and it stung to know that she had been excluded from this conversation. Her decision to go to Hogwarts in the fall was never a question, of course; it seemed, then, neither was the fact that Harry and Ron would be joining the Auror department.

It was lonely.

Ginny had been quietly supportive ever since the letters had come, trying her best to make sure Hermione was never alone. She was grateful none of the Weasleys seemed to blame her for Ron’s heartache, because Merlin knew Hermione blamed herself. They were more than kind to her, even with Ron’s withdrawn face and obvious heartache. Molly had given her a wordless hug after dinner one evening, and since the letters had arrived, Ginny had respectfully chattered about everything _but_ her impending wedding to Harry. Hermione had had to nudge that topic herself.

Fred, on the contrary, had not spoken to her. It was still too soon. He was present at every mealtime like a ghost, poking at his food and listless as ever. He would reply when asked a question, but it had been days since he had spoken a full sentence, and it was hard to miss the worried glances Molly and Arthur exchanged across the kitchen table.

This was the good thing about the marriage law: it gave them time. Not much time, but time nevertheless. And Hermione held on to it gratefully, happy to push this matter from her mind for a little while yet, just long enough to heal and think about it proper.

There was very little positivity to hang on to in the days that followed. Her heart still hurt. People were still recovering from the aftermath of the battle at Hogwarts. Families were still in mourning. She had attended more funerals this past week than she ever thought she would in a lifetime. The worst had been Lupin and Tonks’. Hermione had held baby Teddy as his parents had been lowered into the ground. He was cooing quietly, peaceful and content in her arms and so, so warm. He had no idea what was happening, and in that moment, that blissful innocence had reminded Hermione so acutely of her parents that she had been unable to watch the service through the tears in her eyes. She did not realise she was sobbing until Ron had wrapped his arms around her and held her. He stayed next to her, waiting for her to calm down, a snapshot of a future they might have shared. When she had finally wiped her tears enough to be able to thank him, he had muttered something under his breath that sounded like ‘s’okay’, and left. That had been the beginning and end of their interaction.

It wasn’t _fair._

And yet, despite all the heartaches of that week, of the disappointments and endings—she was the lucky one. She was alive, loved, and safe. She had friends to live with who loved her like their own. She had a match who was, well… _Fred Weasley_.

Girls would kill to have the chance.

But Ron, too-tall, blusterous, red-faced Ron, had not looked her in the eye since the funeral. She had not pushed. They had exchanged awkward smiles, eyes snatching away the moment they happened to meet, and Hermione did her best to ignore the dull ache in her chest.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked her quietly at the end of the third day of this awkward dance. Hermione shook her head, unable to come up with the words, and Harry wrapped his arms around her wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “He’s hurting, too. I’m sorry.”

But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anyone’s.

More letters arrived: from Hogwarts, from the Ministry, questions about their future. The Ministry was happy to offer them positions. Hogwarts would welcome them finishing their Seventh Year.

It was an easy decision for everyone, it seemed. They barely discussed it, because anything that needed to be said had already been said. Hermione would go to Hogwarts. And the others…

They went to work. They got busy.

Harry and Ron were training with the Aurors. _A privilege to have them_ , Kingsley Shacklebolt had said, but Hermione still woke up in the middle of the night, screaming as Harry or Ron died at the hands of a hex they had not heard of, or a curse they had not read. And then she—the only one left behind, the one they relied on, the one they _needed_ to know these things—would get up, dig through her books, and begin reading her copy of _Advanced Hexes and Magicks_. She was one of the few heads left at the Burrow, afforded her own room because, well, her parents were in Australia, and all the Weasley children had begun drifting back to where they belonged: Bill, with his wife in his cottage. Charlie, back to Romania and his dragons; Percy, back to his Ministry job and apartment. Harry and Ron away for training. It was just her, Ginny, and Fred, at least until September 1st.

Fred had _Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes,_ but no one knew where the shop stood now, after the war. Fred and George had been on the run for months, and there was no telling what state the store would be in.

A week passed, and then another. Fred was doing better, by the by. He would participate in conversations, but all his jokes had taken the form of sarcasm and sneers. He would hesitate whenever anyone brought up the magic shop, making excuses, cracking light jokes about wanting to take it easy as a war hero. But Hermione saw the fear in his eyes, and the way he turned away from his mother so she would not see it, too.

The world was still crazy, still rebuilding, but she did not have anything to do with it. The house was lonely, and empty, the days passing by in a blur. Ginny was making the most of the summer weather, spending as much time as she could out flying. Hermione had joined her, once or twice, but flying was something she did not enjoy, and even the impending ennui could not convince her to join Ginny more often. They lazed about, or helped Molly with chores, but the truth was, there was nothing to do. It was hard to find the desire to do much more than wake up and eat and pretend they were all right.

Hermione thought of her parents often, still in Australia, still without the knowledge that they had a daughter thinking of them. The charm that she had performed on them was irreversible, altering memories that already existed until the charmed believed the reality presented to them. They had never had a child, they had never been dentists, and life in Australia had been settled for a while.

It hurt. To think that they would not know her if she were to stand by them. Hermione spent the afternoon lying under a tree, imagining all the ways she could make it all right. It did not matter; no matter how long she spent under that tree, there was no way to undo a charm that altered or removed memory. She could try; oh, yes, Hermione dreamed of grabbing a portkey to Australia and removing the memory charm the best she could. But memories were tricky things, and she could as easily restore her parent’s memories as she could remove them entirely. The fragile happiness she had built for her parents—Hermione would not risk it.

It had been months since Hermione had had a proper night’s sleep. She looked like hell; she knew it. But here was the thing: so did everyone else. Molly, with bags under her eyes and face thinner than she had ever seen it, mustering up shaky smiles the best she could. Arthur, hair always unkempt, eyes droopy and ringed, wrinkles more pronounced than they had ever been. Harry, fingers shaking under the table, unseeing eyes focused on distant images no one could follow him to. Ron, with skin white and glistening with sweat, waking in the middle of the night and being unable to stop the trembling.

Hermione wondered how Harry and Ron were doing with Auror training. She wondered if it was as horrific and soul-sucking as their days had been during Voldemort’s reign, or if it was easier to manage with the Ministry at their back, with the knowledge that the good were the good, and the bad were the bad once again. Harry wrote to her regularly, but the most she had heard from Ron was a ‘Ron says hi’ scrawled in Harry’s hand at the end of his letters. It had only been three weeks, but she could tell that they were thriving thriving in being needed and being wanted for a position such as this. It was hard work—early mornings and late nights—but that wouldn’t bother them. Hermione knew what ignited them. She felt that same latent heat surge to the forefront the moment she thought about the Battle and the lives lost. The moment she thought about baby Teddy without parents, or Fred without his George.

So many times, Hermione drafted a letter to the Minister, requesting a join Harry and Ron, only to crumple it up and throw it away. Other times, the letter would be addressed to Professor McGonagall, asking her for a withdrawal of enrolment, or advice. Those, too, had been crumpled up and destroyed. Hermione felt herself at a crossroads, unable to move forward but burning with energy. She read the books in her bag cover-to-cover, and had taken Molly up on the suggestion she take up knitting (though she loathed it). Twelve weeks of solitude and boredom stretched before her and stifled her. The Burrow had never felt so empty, or so lonely.

And amongst the melancholy of a once-full house echoing with silence, June 2nd came and passed quietly. No one remarked on the fact that it had been a whole month since the Battle, but they all felt it deep in their bones. The Wizarding world had begun healing slowly. And though there was plenty to exalt in—the parties celebrating the demise of Voldemort were still in full swing—the mood in the Weasley household would remain subdued for a while yet. It would take much more than time to move on from that loss, and the house was alive with George’s absence still.

That Sunday past, Hermione sat in her room, drafting a letter to Professor McGonagall yet again. Harry and Ron were visiting, and having them around again after a couple weeks’ absence was enough for her to call it in. She wouldn’t go back to Hogwarts; she couldn’t. They needed her there, and as much as it would haunt her to never complete her Seventh Year, Hermione couldn’t bear being separated from the the boys again. Not when it was still so dangerous out there. Not when knowing the counter-curse to a long-forgotten piece of dark magic might save them. They needed her as much as she needed them; it was a fact Hermione often tried to convince herself of, even with evidence to the contrary.

But the weather outside did not match the heaviness of her ruminations. It was sunny and bright. From a distance, the sounds of the Weasleys (and a single Potter) playing Quidditch filtered into her room. Ginny had even managed to drag Fred onto a broom so they were playing an even two-on-two. The noise was comforting, providing a natural backdrop to Hermione’s morning as she wrote and rewrote the first line of her letter. If she tried, she could almost imagine that she was back at the Burrow the summer before her Fourth Year, looking forward to the Quidditch World Cup, no idea of what lay in store for the future except for classes and O.W.L.s, no idea of Voldemort’s return and the horrors Harry would have to face.

Her quill paused mid-scratch, mid-word. Unbidden, images rose behind her eyes: Colin Creevey absorbing a bright green flash of light, crumpling where he stood, still a child; Nagini’s head trailing through the air, one last piece of Voldemort gone forever, a small hope despite the fact they had all believed Harry dead; Molly duelling Bellatrix, fierce as ever; an explosion, and then the wall, falling, ever falling, slowly, inevitably, burying the twins—

A knock at the door, and Hermione startled, knocking her inkwell all over her bed and letter.

“Merlin’s beard—” She jumped up, hands trembling, hard hammering within her chest. “ _Evan-evanesco_. Damn it, _EVANES_ —”

Her hands were shaking too much. She brought them down to her sides, watching as the ink seeped through the parchment and onto the bedsheets, as dark as blood.

“Hermione?” Behind her, she heard the door creak open, footsteps hesitate at the entrance, and then step in farther. She was not sure what expression she bore, but there was a sharp intake of breath, and then the steps quickened and warm hands grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her away from the blood, the deaths, the war.

“Hermione.” She looked up, eyes still stuck on the battlefield, focusing onto the person who stood before her. _Fred_ , she thought dully. “What happened?” he asked quietly.

“You startled me,” Hermione murmured. She pulled away, looked at the mess on the bed again. She waved her wand, once, twice, growing increasingly frustrated as the ink refused to budge. And then, finally, the ink vanished, leaving her letter and bedsheets as good as new. Hermione’s wand hand wavered as she lowered it, and she turned to look at Fred, who was putting his wand away. His brows were drawn tight together, his face pinched with worry as he looked back at her. It was more than she had seen from him since the Battle, but that was a distant thought, because Hermione was still there, still watching the bodies fall, the sound of shouts and spells, of screams of anger and pain--

“You’re as white as a sheet,” he said as she stared at him unseeingly.

“Just thinking,” Hermione said, blinking to the present. She turned away, her back to Fred, wishing he would leave. Her hands were no longer trembling, but she could feel herself beginning to shake anyway, cold despite the heat of summer, a sort of desperate despair creeping over her at the realisation that she was reduced to _this:_ unable to even vanish an ink spill without help.

Silence. She had almost forgotten Fred was in the room until there was a slight snick of shoe on wood; he moved closer to her.

“Look at me,” Fred said quietly. Hermione turned to face him, raising her eyes to meet his. Warm blue, an expression so unfamiliar sitting on Fred’s face that she had to stare a moment to take it in. Empathy. He reached out and grabbed her hand, pressing it in both of his. The warmth of his skin made Hermione realise at once just how cold she had become, and how warm Fred was. His t-shirt clung to him in places, the sweat drying against his skin, and his hair was still damp. He had just come in from Quidditch, then, face still flushed from the exercise. She took in the details of him anew, forcing herself to study him and forget the memories. Hermione traced the way his hair was pushed back, as if he had run a hand through it, and the way the freckles seemed starker against his skin, somehow. But the freckles nudged another memory to the fore, the memory of another face that looked like Fred, lying in the Great Hall with all the other fallen, face white and freckles bright, striking against the lifelessness of him--

The slide of a thumb against the back of her hands.

Fred’s hands were so, so warm.

He must have noticed some shift in her expression, because Fred dropped her hand and pulled her into a hug.

Tight. He held her so tight that Hermione couldn’t think of anything else for a moment except for how warm he was, and how cold she had felt in every moment before he had held her.

“It’s over, Hermione,” he said quietly. “You’re okay, you’re home. It’s okay.” His voice was quiet, breath soft against her ear. Her body was trembling; Hermione was sure Fred could see it, could probably _feel_ it. She bit her lip, forcing herself to blink away the tears that rose even faster now, with his words in her ears.

“I’m fine,” she said, but her throat was tight. She knew that sound; she had heard it so many times from so many other people: Harry, Ron, Ginny, Molly. _I’m fine_ , said with so much pain and repression. Hermione had promised herself she would never say it, not like that, and yet…

“I know,” Fred said. His tone was calm, even, but heavy with understanding; she had never heard him like this. “Believe me, I know.” And Hermione knew he did. Her eyes began to burn, tears impending, and she let out a small gasp before burying her face against his shoulder.

The tears came easily, then. Hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, twisting the fabric of the shirt Fred wore, trying to push away the images. She was haunted by the green. Again and again, she saw the same people fall, saw pools of red painting the ground. Felt suffocated by the memories.

Fred did not move, did not loosen his hold, as Hermione stumbled her way out of her thoughts. He remained absolutely still, until the tremors disappeared and Hermione pushed herself away from him first, wiping her eyes and pointedly not looking at him.

“Thanks,” she said. “Sorry.” She stepped to the side, awkwardly wrapping her arms around herself. Warmer than she had been just a few moments ago. He did not reply, and for a moment, Hermione panicked at the thought of him leaving.

But Fred wasn’t leaving. As she turned to face him, Hermione saw him tuck his hands in his pockets and lean against the wall. He was watching her thoughtfully, eyes heavy with an emotion Hermione did not want to name, because it was too bitter. The silence was wrapped around them like a heavy blanket. It suffocated them, but held them, too. Hermione spoke into it, too fast and too high, trying to fill the space between them with words.

“The spilt ink reminded me of—it was just the Battle. I kept thinking of…everyone who was there. Everyone who—” She broke off, scrubbing her face with her hands, impatient at the tears that burned in her eyes again. For a moment, she stayed in the cover of darkness her hands provided, shielded from Fred’s view. “Its always been nightmares before. I don’t know why…” She gave up. She felt exhausted, as if she, too, had spent the morning playing Quidditch, spent to the last reserves of her bones.

When Hermione finally dropped her hands and looked back at Fred, he had not moved. She imagined that she saw the muscles in his arms shift, like he had clenched his hands into fists in his pockets, but she couldn’t see them to be sure. Her heart sank; she had not meant to remind Fred of his loss, of what he saw and what tormented him.

But, equally, she knew Fred. He wouldn’t have stayed if he couldn’t handle it. His mouth tightened briefly as she thought this, and then finally, he spoke.

“I have nightmares, too,” Fred said. “I—prefer the ones about the Battle. Watching them die…watching him die, over and over again. Because sometimes—“ Fred cut himself off to take a deep breath in. His eyes drifted from Hermione’s to a point over her shoulder. “It’s harder when he’s there and happy. Living his life. Working at the shop, getting the letter. Because I forget what’s real in those, and _this_ is what feels like the dream, until I wake up into a world where…” Fred swallowed, breaking off. He didn’t have to finish his sentence, though. Hermione understood.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes were brighter than usual, but if there had been tears, he’d already wiped them away. In the set of his mouth, the paleness of his skin, Hermione began to understand what she must have looked like when he walked in, staring at a rapidly-spreading ink stain.

Fred held her gaze, and a new kind of understanding flowing between them. And the feeling was so acute that Hermione found herself telling him stuff she has subconsciously vowed never to share.

“I silence myself before I sleep,” she said. She had used the spell so many times now that she didn’t even need to verbalise it anymore. Hermione’s mouth tugged downwards, and she finally sat down on the edge of the bed. She shrugged her shoulders, not sure how to continue. “I woke Ginny up a couple times, and I couldn’t keep doing that. It’s not fair when she’s…healing. Looking to the future, doing better.”

Pain for pain. It was only fair to share that much of herself with him, when he had shared a piece of himself with her. And now that she had begun to speak, Hermione couldn’t stop.

“It’s worse now that Harry and Ron are back out there.” Her voice grew tight, strained, though she tried not to let it show. “I keep seeing them hurt, or—worse. Because I’m not there. Because I know a spell they don’t, or read a book they haven’t. Because I chose to go back to Hogwarts instead of—” Hermione stopped, biting her lip. She glanced at the half-written letter beside her. It was never going to get finished. Hermione would throw it away, like she had so many others, because she couldn’t fathom not completing her Seventh Year.

“I feel so guilty,” Fred said, his voice almost a whisper. Admission for admission, truth for truth. “How can I live life, when George can’t?” She could see tears glitter in the depth of his eyes, even though he wasn’t looking at Hermione any more. “If I had stood a step to the left, or if I had pushed him out of the way, or if, if I had been _next_ to him…if it could’ve been _me_ …”

In her mind’s eye, Hermione saw an identical, Fred-shaped figure standing next to him. She blinked, and the image was gone, a reminder of the loss, the absence. A reminder that no matter how she looked, or where, the second half of the duo was never coming back.

Hermione swallowed, trying to push past the lump in her throat. She got to her feet, and then stood there, unsure. For a second—a bizarre, stupid second—Hermione wanted to step back into his space, encircle her arms around his waist and hold him tight. She wanted to tell him with that touch just how sorry she was about how he was hurting. Hermione saw the moment play out in her mind, and she almost moved to him. But the moment was not theirs yet, and they had already shared too much. She could see it in Fred’s bright eyes, his nose slightly too pink. She could feel it in the way her fingers still trembled, and the way she found it hard to look at Fred. No, she couldn’t approach him yet. Hermione settled for wrapping her arms around herself instead, trying to preserve the warmth he had left her with.

She should say something. She knew that. They were all hurting; it was not a fact unknown to her. But when she saw Fred, the permanent droop to his mouth and the serious slant of his brows, Hermione was reminded that some pains were harder to bear than others. She might never be able to find the words to soothe that kind of agony.

A thought began to form inside her mind, melding and taking form, though she tried to stop it, tried to force it away. It was no use; the words pushed their way to the front, demanding to be heard as the moment between her and Fred stretched to a finality. _Thank Merlin it had been Fred who had found her like that._

Goosebumps prickled her skin, and Hermione got up and turned towards the window, towards sunshine and the light breeze that wafted through, breaking the moment. She ran her hands across her arms, trying to warm them.

“Who won?” she asked.

“Me.” She hadn’t been sure he would reply, and now she smiled at the indignation that coloured the word. “Ginny was captaining the other side. You _know_ she didn’t stand a chance.”

“How much did she beat you by?” Hermione asked, facing him again, back leaning lightly against the window sill. Reminding herself to breathe, to force herself into a calm she might not feel yet.

“150-60,” Fred said ruefully, stepping closer to the bed. He was still pale, but he was feigning normalcy. Or as normal as you could get, after the war, with the pain and scars and memories following you around like phantoms.

“Pathetic,” Hermione said, and Fred barked a laugh. And this was the Fred that Hermione had been hoping for, that they all had been waiting for. The Fred with whom did not have to separate the darkness from the light. The Fred who took the banter with the pain, who did not move around as if in a dream.

“It was me and Ron versus Harry and Ginny. I’d say quite _impressive_ , actually.” Fred paused. His expression did not match his words, his voice sounding much more chipper than he looked. He cleared his throat, as if he had realised the same, and then shrugged. “Mum says lunch is ready. Coming?”

Hermione blinked, and then nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll just…” She waved a hand at her writing instruments strewn about the bed. “I’ll put those away and I’ll be right down.”

Fred nodded. His eyes met hers, one last look of empathy and understanding, and the he left. Hermione sighed deeply as the door closed behind Fred, letting herself sag against the window sill. She wiped her eyes, more out of habit than actual need, and then made herself take a deep breath and stand up straight. The scenes from the Battle were far enough away now. She could face the world again.


End file.
